


The Curious Case of the Widow and the Cat

by cordeliadelayne



Category: Rivers of London - Ben Aaronovitch
Genre: Case Fic, Drama, Gen, Mystery, Talking Animals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-10
Updated: 2017-07-10
Packaged: 2018-11-30 13:43:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11464779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cordeliadelayne/pseuds/cordeliadelayne
Summary: We don't get a lot of unannounced visitors so when I opened the door to a woman the spitting image of Queen Victoria, down to her widow's weeds, who demanded to speak to my weirdo boss, it took me a moment to realise I wasn't dreaming.





	The Curious Case of the Widow and the Cat

We don't get a lot of unannounced visitors so when I opened the door to a woman the spitting image of Queen Victoria, down to her widow's weeds, who demanded to speak to my weirdo boss, it took me a moment to realise I wasn't dreaming.

“If this is a police matter,” I started to say, only for her to interrupt.

“This is a matter for him and his...” and here she mimicked exactly the wrist motion Nightingale does whenever he takes down literal straw men in the firing range.

I looked behind me, where Molly was curiously watching proceedings and then down at Toby who was on the prowl for sausages.

“I don't like dogs,” she informed me as Toby took a cautious sniff at her shoes. I grabbed his collar and pulled him back before she did something I'd have to arrest her for.

“And what exactly did you want to see Inspector Nightingale about?” I asked, handing Toby over to Molly who indicated with a twitch of her head that she'd go and get Nightingale.

“What's it to you?”

I didn't point that she'd knocked on _my_ door and instead asked her for her name.

“Primrose Evangeline Rutherford,” she said. “Of Great St Helens.”

Even if that hadn't meant something to me I still would have kept my expression blank. Her right eye developed a twitch that continued for the next half an hour.

“Ah, finally, the chief weirdo,” Primrose Rutherford said as Nightingale approached the front door.

He looked understandably nonplussed at this greeting, but plastered on a professional smile anyway.

“How can I help you?”

“I'm not in the habit of discussing my personal business in the street like a tradesman,” she replied, and huffed and puffed as Nightingale stepped aside for her to come in. She got as far as Sir Isaac's statue, shuddered, and then turned around again.

“You did some work for the family,” she began, “in Ceylon.”

Nightingale frowned and I nearly said something until I realised he was thinking the same thing I was.

“I've certainly been to Sri Lanka,” he said, slight emphasis on the word almost undetectable if you weren't looking for it, “but I'm afraid I'm...”

“Grandpapa said you dealt with some local weirdo who was stealing weird books.”

“We prefer the term wizard,” I said, “or police officer.”

“That's not what he called you but very well, if you insist,” she replied, eye twitching madly. “I want you to find my cat.”

Nightingale has a pretty good poker face but there was no hiding his reaction to this.

“Lost pets aren't really in our line,” he said. Toby padded back out just then and Nightingale very deliberately didn't meet my eyes. “I could put you in touch with your local station...”

“It's not my pet,” she interrupted. “We've been meeting for a drink every Tuesday in St James's Park for the last six months. He's never once failed to show up before and I want you to find him.”

“A drink?” I asked.

“I bring milk in a flask,” she said, as if this were a perfectly normal thing to be doing.

Nightingale did look at me then, clearly struggling to know how to respond.

“Perhaps if you could give us a description?” I suggested, taking out my notebook. In my experience the more you look like you're taking someone seriously, the quicker you can get rid of them.

“Ginger fur, with one splash of black on his front left paw. His name's Albert. He told me if anything were to happen to him I was to come to this address and ask for the Nightingale. Of course, I remembered my grandfather's stories about the weir-wizards that lived here...”

“I'm sorry,” Nightingale interrupted, “the cat spoke to you?”

“Of course he does,” she snapped. “I'd have hardly been spending all that time talking to myself, would I?”

There was, naturally, no way to answer this.

* * * * * *

“They're a banking family,” Nightingale was saying to me, some hours after we'd taken contact details for Primrose Rutherford and assured her we'd be in touch. “Ah, yes, here we are.”

We were settled in the magical library, me with my notes about talking animals – which I'd started when Abigail first told us about her vulpine friend - and Nightingale with some of his old case notes.

“Do you remember her grandfather?” I asked.

“Vaguely. Typical man of his time,” he said. I smiled to myself at that and watched him flick through his notes. “Yes, of course. The bank had mishandled the property of a Sri Lankan wizard. I happened to be in the area and managed to arbitrate.”

I saw his smile, and raised an eyebrow. “What did you do?”

“Obviously it was a different time.”

“Obviously.”

“And I wasn't a police offer then."

“Okay.”

“Chathura Jayakody his name was. The bank had some of his books in their safe they were refusing to return. I never really did get to the bottom of why.” (I could make a guess). “Anyway, he created a duplicate which I substituted for the original, and no one at the bank was any the wiser.”

“Sneaky,” I said, as he smiled at me. “Nothing to do with talking cats, though?”

If anything his smile got wider. “No, I'm afraid not. It does make you wonder how many animals can talk, if only they had someone to listen to them.”

We both looked down at Toby who had curled to sleep by Nightingale's feet.

He didn't make a sound.

* * * * *

Looking for a lost cat, even one that can talk, wasn't exactly a high priority just then but we both knew that something innocuous like that can lead on to something bigger and Nightingale has been feeling his responsibility to the demi-monde even more keenly these days. Which is why I found myself sitting on a bench in St James's Park the Tuesday after our visit from Primrose Rutherford, on the lookout for a bit of feline companionship.

The oldest of London's Royal Parks and the first to be opened to the pubic, in 1644 the Russian ambassador to Charles II donated a colony of pelicans to St James's and it was by this colony that I was sitting now.

After about ten minutes of watching children shrieking in delight every time a pelican came near them, Primrose Rutherford appeared, clocked me and then went to sit two benches away.

“Don't mind her, she's like that with everyone. Only cares about her bloody cat.”

I looked up to see two blonde and tanned Australians pushing a couple of prams and dragging a couple of chihuahuas behind them. Obviously au pairs they sat down next to me and introduced themselves as Emma and Kristy.

“You see her a lot round here then?” I asked.

Kristy picked up the baby which had just started fussing and bounced him on her knee as she answered.

“Like clockwork. Never seen her miss a day. Always brings a flask of milk for this stray she's adopted.”

“Sits talking to it for about half an hour,” Emma added. “Like a proper conversation, as if it can talk back.”

Both girls shook their heads in sync. No need to ask them if they'd ever heard the cat talk, then.

“Did you happen to see her last week?” I asked. Normally your average Londoner would have started interrogating me about asking so many questions and I'd have had to get my warrant card involved. These two on the other hand didn't see anything unusual in my interest; I got the feeling that Primrose Rutherford had long been a focus of local gossip.

“Yeah, she threw a right one, 'cause the cat didn't turn up. Probably found a better offer.”

“I'll bet it was anyone's for a tin of tuna,” Emma said, smiling toothily at her own joke.

“And how did she react? Calling for it?” I asked.

“Yeah, and the rest,” Kristy said. “Started questioning us, as if we've got to be wondering what she's doing, with two babies and these stupid dogs to look after. Then she started in on the bloke who looks after the pond – asked him if a pelican could eat a cat.”

We all looked towards the pelicans. I didn't doubt they'd manage a kitten but a fully grown cat would probably be a bit much. Anyway, something to get my Google search history salivating over later.

“And then what?” I asked.

“She went home, I guess.”

“We better get on too, before the Dragon gets back from the spa,” Kristy said, smiling apologetically in my direction. “It was nice to meet you. We're here the same time every day,” she added, only for Emma to pull her away with a whispered warning about a boyfriend.

I watched them go with as polite a smile on my face as I could manage and then looked over to where Primrose Rutherford had been sitting. Only she was nowhere to be found.

* * * * *

I stayed in the park for a few more hours and talked to some more of the regulars. They all knew exactly who I was talking about when I mentioned the old lady and the cat, but nobody thought there was anything odd about the cat, just that it knew a good source of food when it saw it.

When I got back to the Folly I found that Nightingale had been digging up some more background about the Rutherfords.

“It struck me as odd for a talking animal to have singled out someone with no appreciable magical abilities,” he said.

“You think it wanted something from her and then when he got it he left?” I asked, around a mouthful of lemon drizzle cake Molly had put out for us.

“That would be my guess,” Nightingale said. “And I may have found just the thing.”

He handed me the print out of a newspaper article dated two months ago. I nearly asked him how he'd managed to navigate the internet by himself, but that seemed rude.

“You showed me how to Google last year,” he said, easily interpreting my impressed silence.

“Good job,” I replied, with a smile which he returned good-naturedly, knowing I meant it as a compliment. For a man who'd spent so much time in the past he was adapting a lot quicker to the 21st century than I think I would have done in the same situation.

“I think we'll be needing to have another talk with Mrs Rutherford,” Nightingale said, then sat back to finish his tea while I read the article.

It turned out that Primrose Rutherford had had a recent uptick in her prospects when some books she'd sold at auction fetched a cool £1.5 million. The _Evening Standard_ had done a puff piece on her and her family and only in the last paragraph mentioned that the provenance of the books was being disputed by the Sri Lankan authorities.

I looked up at Nightingale and could see we'd reached the same conclusion.

“Her family has a habit of taking what isn't their's, don't they?” I said.

“It does rather look that way,” Nightingale agreed.

* * * * *

Two days later and Nightingale and I were sitting in Primrose Rutherford's front room which was doing a very good impression of a doily factory. It was also a fairly standard new build moonlighting as a Georgian original. Mrs Rutherford had been less than pleased to see us, which was decidedly odd for a woman who'd asked for our help.

“We just have a few follow-up questions,” I said, after refusing an offer of tea, as had Nightingale. “It would help if you could tell us what exactly you and – Albert – discussed.”

Mrs Rutherford looked over towards the kitchen, and then back to us. “I don't know what you're talking about, I don't know anybody called Albert.”

Nightingale abruptly stood up and went to the kitchen while I tried to get Mrs Rutherford to tell me what had happened.

“It was those bloody books,” she said, and then refused to say anything else.

“The door has been forced,” Nightingale said, coming back into the room. “No sign of the intruder. Mrs Rutherford, I think it's about time you started telling us the truth, don't you?”

Primrose Rutherford glared at him, and then at me, before pulling a piece of paper out of her top and handing it over. Gingerly I took it from her and unfolded it.

THE BOOKS FOR THE CAT

Nightingale read the note over my shoulder and I felt his hot breath on my cheek as he just about reigned in a sigh.

“When did this arrive?” he asked.

She pursed her lips as if she'd just swallowed a lemon before answering in a clipped tone. “The day I want to see you. I thought it was some sort of joke.”

“Until they broke in today?” I suggested.

She nodded and I'd almost started to feel a bit sorry for her until she told us in no uncertain terms that the money and the rest of the books were her birthright, and no one was going to take them away from her.

* * * * *

The break-in gave us the perfect opportunity to call in Forensics to have a sniff around. And, of course, confiscate any and all magic related books we could find – which turned out to be 25 beautifully preserved manuscripts hidden in a suitcase in the attic.

Once we were back at the Folly Nightingale reverently examined the manuscript while I made detailed notes.

“Sri Lankan?” I guessed, to which he nodded. “So whoever these belong to saw the profile in the _Standard_ and decided to get them back any way they could.”

“I do wish they'd contacted us first,” Nightingale said.

“They probably thought the Folly was closed for business,” I pointed out.

“Hmm, yes, I suppose that's true. Of course now we have to find a way of contacting them to return their property and make sure the cat is safe.”

“They must have been watching in the park for some time and decided the cat was a useful bargaining tool,” I mused. “He's probably been watching Primrose Rutherford's house too, so he'll know about the police being involved by now.”

“Sounds like someone will need to keep close to the Rutherford place for the next few days,” Nightingale said.

I was in no doubt about who that someone was going to be.

* * * * *

As it turned out I didn't need to go on a stakeout because the next morning, before we'd even finished breakfast, we had our second unannounced visitor of the month.

Molly had gone to answer the door and then abruptly came into the breakfast room with a snarling Toby in her arms. The problem was obvious as, trailing behind her, was a pretty dark skinned woman with long black hair failing in a braid over her left shoulder, and a ginger cat in her arms.

“And I normally get on so well with dogs,” the cat said, staring at Toby.

“Molly, downstairs, perhaps?” Nightingale suggested and Molly dutifully took Toby to the kitchen.

“The Nightingale, I presume?” our visitor said, putting the cat, obviously Albert unless there was an epidemic of talking cats in the neighbourhood, onto one of the breakfast chairs.

“Yes, and this is my apprentice, Peter.” She gave me a surprised look and then studied Nightingale a little closer. “And your name is?” he prompted.

“Where are my manners?” she replied with a smile. “My name is Keshini Jayakody and I would very much like my country's property back.”

There was a steel behind her words that I certainly recognised and I'm sure Nightingale did too.

“Of course,” Nightingale said. “They're in our library. Could I offer you a cup of tea while Peter packs them up for you?”

“My great-grandfather said you were a fast learner,” she replied. “How hard did you need to pull him into the 21st century?” she asked me.

“Not as much as you might think,” I told her.

“Then tea would be lovely, thank you.”

* * * * *

It not being every day that we get to learn about the wizarding world outside England I quizzed Keshini as politely as possible until she laughed under my onslaught and suggested we exchange emails and she'd send me the information I was after once she'd consulted with her bosses. Provided of course we were open to doing the same.

“We'd be more than willing,” Nightingale agreed.

“Thank you,” Keshini said. “And I apologise for my unauthorised use of magic at Primrose Rutherford's house. That was rude of me.”

“Under the circumstances I think we can forgo pursuing charges for kidnapping,” he said and we all looked at Albert who was eagerly devouring the sea bass Molly had brought for him. “And a warning about breaking and entering should suffice.”

Keshini nodded. “Next time we'll call the Folly first,” she agreed.

* * * * *

Nightingale offered to drive Keshini to her hotel, leaving me alone with Albert who was much less interested in talking than Keshini had been.

He refused to divulge where he came from or how many other talking cats he knew, or even if they were a distinct species from regular cats. He did acknowledge he knew some talking foxes, “think they own the place” and that until Keshini had tried to bundle him into her car and he'd asked her what the hell she thought she was doing his interest in Primrose Rutherford had only been sustenance based. Providing an old woman with a little companionship apparently seemed a small price to pay for regular milk and tuna.

More than that he wouldn't comment and so after he'd had his fill of fish I opened the door for him and watched him saunter across the road and into Russell Square.

He didn't look back once.


End file.
